


Just Visiting

by ben_jaded



Series: Anywhere, Anytime [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Come Marking, Deepthroating, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Oral Sex, Top T'Challa (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 03:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14535675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ben_jaded/pseuds/ben_jaded
Summary: N'Jadaka visits T'Challa in his office.





	Just Visiting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quixotesque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixotesque/gifts).



> Quix, thank you for being an enabler. You inspire me to always write the best smut. This includes some of the things we talked about the other day: implied exhibitionism, sloppy oral and sexy undressing. Lol I hope you like it.  
>   
> Also thank you to everyone who listened to me whine while writing this and provided their services as a beta. Really wouldn't have finished this without you.

T'Challa is in his office going over the day’s agenda with two of his aides when N'Jadaka saunters into his office. 

T’Challa takes in the sight of him, sweatpants hanging low on narrow hips, a muscle shirt clinging tight to his chest and torso, skin coated in a light sheen of sweat. He must have come directly from a sparring session. T’Challa can taste the saltiness of his sweat from here. His movements are languid, catlike as he approaches T’Challa’s desk. He greets the aides, makes eye contact with T'Challa, his gaze ravenous and all-consuming. T'Challa can feel the intent behind that heated gaze, knows exactly what N'Jadaka has sought him out for, feels his cock twitch in anticipation. 

“N'Jadaka,” T'Challa says warmly in greeting, quite used to the other man’s unexpected visits during his working hours. 

N'Jadaka perches on the corner of his desk, leans forward and chastely kisses T’Challa’s lips, softly whispers, “Hi.”

T'Challa cannot help but smile, returns the kiss in kind. He cups N'Jadaka’s jaw, runs a thumb across the plushness of N'Jadaka’s bottom lip, and asks, “What are you doing here, my love?”

N'Jadaka tongues the pad of T'Challa's thumb, shrugs nonchalantly and says, “just visiting.”

T'Challa knows the nonchalance is fake; N'Jadaka takes great pleasure in the fact that T'Challa's staff, from the lowest aide to the Dora Milaje, know exactly what his visits mean. At the beginning of their courtship, N'Jadaka’s possessiveness had been grating, his need to assert his claim over T'Challa – his time, his body, his attention – inconvenient at the best of times; he’d been insatiable. T'Challa has grown used to it, and now finds the entire situation amusing, finds comfort in the routine. “Just visiting?” he asks teasingly.

N'Jadaka plants a hand over T'Challa's heart, runs the other over the collar of T'Challa's kurta, tracing the embroidery there, and whispers hotly against his mouth, “I want you to come on my face.”

T'Challa sighs inwardly. He knows he indulges his consort too much, knows exactly why N'Jadaka chose to say this in front of their audience. He lifts the hand N'Jadaka has over his heart, places a kiss on the knuckles, and tells his aides who are making every attempt at being invisible, “I must attend to my spouse.”

The aides take this as their cue to leave, each having seen too much of their King and his consort.

“Why must you always do this, N'Jadaka?” T'Challa asks after he’s sure they are alone. He lightly caresses N'Jadaka’s knuckles, is only slightly exasperated by the other man’s antics. 

“Because you love it,” N'Jadaka replies unrepentantly. He pulls his hand free, makes room for himself on T'Challa's cluttered desk, spreads his thighs so that his legs are bracketing the arms of T’Challa’s chair. “Don’t deny it.”

T'Challa lowers his hands to N'Jadaka’s hips, squeezes the scarred skin there. “Yes, I do,” he responds, thumbs tracing the lines of N'Jadaka’s hip bones.

“I know,” N'Jadaka answers, getting to work on undressing T'Challa, fingers making swift work of the intricate buttons. “You also love fucking me in this room.”

T'Challa’s hands move from N'Jadaka’s hips, down his thick thighs. He longs to feel the corded muscles there. “Strip for me,” he commands, voice low with desire. 

N'Jadaka sighs, caresses T’Challa’s exposed collarbones, teasingly says, “but I want you naked.” Still, he hops off the desk. He slowly pulls the shirt over his head, the fabric stretching under his grip, tosses it across the room. 

T'Challa leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he watches N'Jadaka slowly strip for him, desire hot and intense burns through him. 

N'Jadaka toes off his sneakers and socks, plays with the drawstrings of his sweatpants. Holding T'Challa’s gaze, he slowly unties the corded strings. He sticks his thumbs at the jut of his hip bones, runs them along the waistband before slowly shimmying out of his sweatpants. He kicks them off, moans low and dirty as he rolls his nipples between his thumb and forefinger before running his hands down over his chest and torso. 

T'Challa stares transfixed as N'Jadaka toys with the waistband of his boxer briefs. N'Jadaka bites his bottom lip, sucks on it before pulling his underwear slowly off his hips. His cock slaps against his abdomen, smearing precome as N'Jadaka drags them down his thighs. He steps out of them, meets T'Challa's burning gaze, asks with a cocky grin, “Like what you see?” 

“Always,” T'Challa responds, voice rough with need. 

N'Jadaka preens under his gaze, pulls his shoulders back, makes a show of stretching his arms over his head. And T'Challa wants to eat him up, lick at every inch of exposed skin, wants to worship N'Jadaka with his mouth and hands. _Later_ , he tells himself, his dark stare devouring N'Jadaka’s nude body. “Come here,” he demands, holding out a hand.

N'Jadaka takes a step forward, curls his fingers around T'Challa’s outstretched hand. T'Challa tugs, pulls him closer until he’s standing between T'Challa’s spread legs. He presses a light kiss to the pulse point at N'Jadaka’s wrist, slides his hands over the glistening roughness of N'Jadaka’s forearms and biceps. He trails them over broad shoulders, down smooth collar bones, curving pectorals, a well-defined abdomen, follows the trail all the way down to the light dusting of hair leading to an erect cock. 

N'Jadaka groans placing both hands on T'Challa's shoulders to steady himself. One of T’Challa’s hands grips N'Jadaka’s waist tightly, while the other continues to explore. He runs his fingers through the coarseness of N'Jadaka’s pubic hair. He cups his balls and lightly squeezes then fists the base of N'Jadaka’s throbbing cock. N'Jadaka groans, thrusts into his hand. 

N'Jadaka’s cock is coated in precome, the head leaking more as T'Challa slides his fist upward. He rubs his thumb back and forth over the slit, presses down until a well of precome covers his fingers. He strokes the head of N'Jadaka’s leaking cock, runs his fingers over the throbbing veins, feels N'Jadaka’s grip on his shoulders tighten. 

N'Jadaka cups the back of T’Challa’s head, tugs until T'Challa looks up at him. “Stop fucking around,” he grits through clenched teeth, “I wanna suck your cock.” 

T'Challa holds his stare, entranced by the hunger he sees there. “What is the magic word?” he asks, continuing to stroke N'Jadaka’s cock. 

N'Jadaka closes his eyes, hips thrusting into T'Challa's tight fist. " _Please_ lemme suck yo cock." 

T'Challa lets go, hands covered in precome. “Kneel,” he orders, voice low and even. 

N'Jadaka sinks to his knees. Clutching T'Challa's thighs, he scoots forward, buries his face in T'Challa's crotch, mouths at the outline of the bulge tenting T’Challa’s linen trousers. 

“I want this shit off,” N'Jadaka growls, sitting back on his heels. He strokes the outline of T'Challa's cock, pushes the kurta out of the way before he starts to work on the buttons of T'Challa's trousers. T’Challa’s hands cup N’Jadaka’s cheeks, tilting his face upward to look into his eyes as N’Jadaka works on unbuttoning his trousers. 

Once he’s done, T'Challa lifts his hips, lets N’Jakada tug them down until they fall to T’Challa’s ankles. He pushes the waistband of T'Challa’s briefs down, just below the balls, and stares hungrily at T'Challa's cock. N’Jadaka reaches for it, circles the base, leans forward and lowers his mouth over the head, hollowing his cheeks as T'Challa's cock sinks further in. He drags his tongue over the head and flicks it into the slit. 

T’Challa can feel N’Jakada’s mouth open wider, feels an encompassing heat as N’Jakada moves his head up and down, his lips and tongue working in sync. “You are torturing me,” he groans, thrusting into the wet warmth of N'Jadaka’s mouth. He fists a hand on N'Jadaka’s locs, urging him to take more. 

“Not yet,” N'Jadaka answers after pulling away, saliva and come covering his mustache and beard. His lips curve into a sly grin, exposing a golden tipped canine, before he licks a line up T'Challa's cock, moaning appreciatively. He sucks T’Challa’s cock back into his mouth, smirks as his tongue plays over the head. 

“Liar,” T'Challa grumbles. N'Jadaka scrapes his teeth lightly against the head in retaliation, making him moan.

“I’m gonna suck you nice and slow,” N'Jadaka says, breath hot, eyes at half-mast as he looks up at T'Challa. He sticks his tongue out to lap at the head, closes his lips around the crown, sucks lightly as he moves his tongue, “then you’re going to fuck my mouth, make me gag on it.”

T'Challa lifts his hips and N'Jadaka pulls his briefs down. They bunch at his calves along with his trousers. N'Jadaka lifts his feet one at a time, shoving both away. T’Challa opens his thighs a little wider, and N'Jadaka muscles the wide set of his shoulders in to close the gap. He wraps his hand around T'Challa's cock, gives a nice, slow stroke. 

T'Challa’s head falls back against the chair, helpless to his desire for N'Jadaka, and groans, “you are a tease.”

N'Jadaka ducks his head down, blows a cool breath over the head. T'Challa feels his cock jerk in N'Jadaka’s hand. N’Jadaka drags his tongue over the head, spits slippery slickness over thick fingers. He caresses T'Challa’s thighs, grabs his hips suddenly, holds him down. “Can’t wait to choke on this cock,” he whispers hoarsely. 

He kisses the crease at the sharpness of T'Challa's hipbone, rubs his rough cheek against the sensitive skin of T'Challa's inner thigh, mouths at the corded muscle there. The soft, wet pad of his tongue spreading the slickness of his hunger over the thick, heavy muscle of T'Challa's thigh up and up until he reaches the delicate skin of T'Challa's balls. Cupping them, he rolls them between his slippery fingers, sucks one into his mouth and moans. 

T'Challa jumps slightly. “You are killing me,” he moans, cock leaking furiously. N'Jadaka follows the trail of come with eager lips, swirls his tongue into the slit, then swallows down as fast as he can, moaning deeply. 

T’Challa feels the reverberation all the way down to his balls. His thighs tremble under N'Jadaka’s grip as the other man swallows his cock all the way back into his throat. N'Jadaka gags himself on T’Challa’s cock, the soft muscle of his throat fluttering around the rigid length of T'Challa's cock. He pulls off wetly, tears streaming down his cheeks, and sinks back down to do it all over again.

N'Jadaka pulls back, lets go of T’Challa’s cock with an obscene popping sound, saliva and precome clinging to his lips as he does it. He runs just the tip of his tongue over the thick vein on the underside of T'Challa's cock, just before he takes T’Challa all the way into his mouth again. 

T’Challa jerks into the warm heat of N’Jadaka’s mouth as he hums around his cock. The tight warmness undoes him; his legs start to shake, and he can feel himself losing control. He watches his cock slide in and out of N’Jadaka’s full lips. The other man has his eyes closed, focused firmly on the task of sucking T’Challa dry. 

N’Jadaka establishes a slow and steady rhythm, bobbing his head back and forth along T’Challa’s cock, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks. One of his hands moves to cup T’Challa’s balls, massaging them gently, the other scratches lightly across the taut skin of T’Challa’s trembling thigh. T’Challa knows that N’Jadaka knows what this does to him, what _he_ does to him.

“N’Jadaka,” T’Challa grunts, trying to slow the rhythm of his hips. The more N’Jadaka moans around his cock, the more he feels the urge to make him choke on it and come right there, deep in N’Jakada’s throat. 

_Torture,_ T'Challa thinks as he grabs N'Jadaka's shoulders. “Would you do it, my love? Would you truly deprive yourself of air just to get more of me inside you? Is your body that lonely without my cock inside of it?”

N'Jadaka quakes as he moans around the thick girth of T’Challa’s cock in his mouth. T’Challa runs his hand through N’Jadaka’s dreadlocks, spreads his fingers through the thickness of it, tries to soothe him. “You have my cock now, N’Jadaka. It is yours as long as you wish it. As often as you can stand it.” He grabs a handful of N'Jadaka's locs, holds onto them gently as N'Jadaka suckles his cock. “You are so beautiful like this. So sure–” His voice breaks as N'Jadaka's nose meets the short, wiry hair he loves to bury his face in. “Take, my love. Take all you want from me.”

N'Jadaka pulls off of T'Challa's cock, saliva and precome clinging to his lips and face. He lifts a palm up, spits the frothy mixture into his hand, wraps his sticky fingers around T’Challa’s cock. He laps at the head as T'Challa's foreskin glides over the wet, sensitive glands. His hungry lips bump into his fist as he tries to take more of T’Challa’s thick cock into his mouth. He leans back, presses his tongue along the thick vein, moans deeply in his throat trying to coax more come out of T’Challa’s cock. 

“Look at me,” T'Challa commands, tugging lightly on the locs clutched tight between his fist. N’Jadaka peers up at him from under his lashes, his pupils so dilated that there’s almost no brown left. He narrows his eyes knowingly at T’Challa before he takes him deeper into his mouth, moans wantonly around the girth. T’Challa can feel N’Jadaka trying to hold back a smile as he breathes sharply through his nose, taking him in, as much as he can, and swallowing and–

_Fuck._

T’Challa yanks him up. N’Jakada gasps wetly, wide-eyed as he stares up at T’Challa. Come and saliva drip down his chin, his lips are swollen, and tears stream down his face; he makes a beautiful picture.

T’Challa groans and gives in, pulls him back onto his cock hard enough to make him gag. N’Jadaka moans in supplication. 

T’Challa tightens his grip on N’Jadaka’s locs and thrusts up. N'Jadaka grabs his hips and holds on as T'Challa leans down on his seat and rides his mouth mercilessly, giving him exactly what he asked for. 

“N’Jadaka,” he slurs roughly, getting lost in the sensation, on the sound of N’Jadaka gagging on his cock, “look at what you do to me.”

N’Jadaka moans deeply, surges out of T'Challa's grip, takes a deep breath, and swallows T’Challa whole. 

“Stay down,” T’Challa commands, hand clenching around N’Jadaka’s throat. He can feel N'Jadaka’s throat muscles fluttering around the head of his cock, feels the hot pants of N'Jadaka’s breath against his pubic bone. N'Jadaka stays down, keeps swallowing, taking T'Challa's cock deeper into his throat. He doesn’t stop.

T'Challa knows he’s close, can feel the tell-tale first jerk of his balls, feels his body start to tense. It’s the warmth and the wetness all at once. He caresses the smooth column of N’Jadaka’s throat, can’t stop watching the way it works around his cock. He tugs hard at N'Jadaka’s hair, forcing the other man to come up for air. N'Jadaka pulls back, come and saliva dribbling out onto his lips. T'Challa reaches forward, wipes it away with a thumb. N'Jadaka chases his thumb with his tongue, sucks it back into his mouth. 

“Come here,” T'Challa says, grip tightening on N'Jadaka’s locs. 

N'Jadaka leans forward, closes his eyes and tilts his head back, tongue sticking out. T'Challa rubs the head of his cock against N'Jadaka’s cheeks, lips, and tongue, leaving behind a trail of precome. 

“Fuck yeah,” N'Jadaka croaks out, sounding well-fucked, “Gimme that nut. Give it to me. I fucking want it, 'Challa. It's mine. Come on my fucking face.”

T'Challa can’t deny him anything. He feels his balls draw up, feels the heat coiling in his abdominal muscles. He resists the urge to close his eyes, he wants to see this, wants to give N'Jadaka everything in him. “Look at me,” he growls, fist working furiously over his engorged cock. 

N'Jadaka meets his gaze head on, eyes hungry, “c’mon T.” 

T’Challa can feel the orgasm as it unfurls through his body, stares into N’Jadaka’s greedy eyes as he falls apart. He comes with a long and drawn out moan. His cock spits out a long strand of pearly come over N'Jadaka's face. Some of it landing on his forehead. Another pulse hits his lips and his tongue immediately reaches out to lap it up. T'Challa rings jet after jet of come onto N'Jadaka's lips, nose, chin and cheeks. The warm creamy come jerking his body with the force of its need to fulfill N'Jadaka's wishes.

“Fuck,” N'Jadaka groans as he savors the taste.

T’Challa pants heavily, watches as N’Jadaka licks his lips clean, rubs T’Challa’s come all over his face.

T'Challa grabs his arms, pulls him up into his lap. N’Jadaka shifts around until his thighs are aligned with T’Challa’s. His hand curls around T’Challa’s neck, his low laughter invading T’Challa’s ears. He buries his fingers into T’Challa’s hair, massaging his scalp with lazy circles, smearing come all over T’Challa’s hair. 

T’Challa kisses him long and hard, tasting the sharp tang of himself on N'Jadaka’s tongue, then drags his lower lip between his teeth. He reaches for N’Jadaka’s cock nestling between them, kisses down N'Jadaka’s chin, the underside of his jaw, affectionately tells him, “Your mouth is a heaven all its own, N'Jadaka.”

“Fuck,” N’Jadaka grunts, cradling the back of T’Challa’s neck. He growls when T’Challa strokes his thumb over the head of his cock. 

“When I recover,” T’Challa whispers against N’Jadaka’s lips, wrapping N'Jadaka’s cock in a slick grip, jerks him nice and slow, twisting his wrist, just the way N'Jadaka likes. “I will have you just like. Riding my lap before I bend you over my desk.” 

“Anything you want,” N’Jadaka moans gutturally, cock leaking fiercely as he thrusts into T’Challa’s fist. 

They exchange open-mouthed kisses, panting into each other’s mouths, as T’Challa’s hand sets a steady pace. N’Jadaka hisses, arching his back as his thighs tense against T’Challa’s own. He moans loudly as he rocks his hips forward, seeking his own release in T’Challa’s tight grip. Both his hands spasm helplessly around their tight hold on T’Challa’s scalp and neck as he comes.

T'Challa cups his face, kisses N'Jadaka until his lips are bruised and swollen, until he’s a writhing mess on T'Challa's lap. He rests his forehead against N'Jadaka’s, says, “I will always make time for you.” Because he means it, always has. 

“I know.” Face covered in come and saliva, N'Jadaka’s smile is warm and radiant.

**Author's Note:**

> Is smut going to be my only contribution to this fandom...maybe >.>  
>   
> As always I appreciate your comments and kudos. Thanks for reading this mess.


End file.
